


The 9th Conflict

by Zinfandel



Series: Waiting For You [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blood, Consensual Violence, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinfandel/pseuds/Zinfandel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a warm spring night in Belgium Pitch momentarily forgets who his enemy is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 9th Conflict

**Author's Note:**

> This moment takes place about 8 years after the movie and 2 years before the 17th bit.

Shit. Just his luck. His attempts at extending his wintry reign into spring failed repeatedly all over Europe. He had left Easter alone (They had a very precarious truce, him and Bunny, that was often…forgotten on both sides) this year and wanted to wreak a bit of havoc into April to release some tension. The southern hemisphere’s winters were fun and all but there was so much less land to take care of down there that Jack often found he had more time than he knew what to do with when the North was in its warmer months. 

He was coming up from Italy. Those Mediterranean countries would just not give in to his efforts this week. He had spent the last two weeks furiously playing with any and all kids he could find and created as much out of season weather he could possibly muster. His thoughts were as tumultuous as his actions. 

His mind was simply not taking the hint his body was trying to give and kept wandering back to the reason WHY he was so furiously attending to his duties. Not even a month ago he had another bout with Pitch off the tip of South America over the ocean. His success was obvious but he still felt a sort of unease about the whole set-up. He had been finding and challenging Pitch for nearly eight years now. Admittedly most of their encounters were unplanned but neither seemed to forgo a fight when confronted with it. 

That fourth time though was…amazing! It had taken place almost a year since their third exhilarating bout. Jack had spent a few months after his second victory (their second fight having been Pitch’s pleasure to steal) tracking the dark across the globe so that he may find his enemy to beat him yet again, but his efforts were mostly in vain. Time had dampened his pursuit however and this made him have to stop his mindless hunt to actually THINK about what he was doing. He quickly concluded however that this was his duty to stop Pitch. Smirking in a self-deprecating way Jack mused about how he was so ‘ naive’ back then.

Those old thoughts and childish conclusions had to be revisited though almost after each consecutive fight. He had stubbornly made new and similar conclusions about his duty and feelings until another bitter defeat at their 7th fight. Pitch was merciless then and as Jack rocketed away in defeat his flight unsteady and turbulent he found he hadn't hated it! His defeat was humiliating but it meant so much more to him! 

The pain of that fight was acute in his mind from the loss and as he licked his wounds careful to follow the daylight for the next few days he couldn't help but grin like a wild man. He was ALIVE, he was strong, and he was confirmed! He was bested in a most capital way, and it had been FUN. This fight forced reality into his face and he could do nothing but accept it. 

Once he did all the other previous fights were shown in a new light. His struggles with his conscience seemed silly. This was most certainly fun for him. He didn’t know why yet. These were the thoughts that plagued him constantly in the lulls between battles; these were what made him give Europe an April to remember this year. 

Then, It suddenly struck him like an asteroid out of the sky. Was this alright? He was having fun with pain, with suffering, with…war. He liked his injuries and he liked inflicting them. Horror struck him when the faces of nameless children flashed before his mind. Oh god-

SLAM. 

Gravity came rushing back! Something had smacked him right out of the sky. Careening into the rolling wooded hills somewhere in Belgium he crashed viciously into a pine tree effectively chopping off the top in his descent. Recovering not quickly enough for his tastes Jack hooked a foot on a limb within reach and used his momentum to swing upright and land on a branch a few feet above. 

There was no sound besides wind through needly pines bright with spring growth. Jack shot right back up into the air quickly assessing his surroundings with a twirl. It was dark; the lights of a town were a few miles off tucked into the hills. There was a shadow in that direction as well. Pitch! But it hadn’t even been a month! His heart began to pound. He was excited. All previous morbid thoughts erased in the urgency of the moment. He had no time now to linger on the past!

Jack charged, a small satisfied smile on his lips. The shadow did likewise and almost immediately the golden glow of eyes was visible. Summoning a force of super chilled wind in front of him like a battering ram the two forces clashed.

A great burst of snow and shadows erupted mid-air. The snow dusted the ground below in a lone bright circle amid dark fresh greens of spring; the shadow retreated back to its owner. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation when Jack lunged back in with the butt end of his staff. Pitch eased out of the way with a swinging motion around the handle of his scythe that acted like a point of leverage even in the middle of the sky. 

Jack fell out of his position like he had suddenly lost all control over his body missing the kick swung at his head. This was getting too close so he retreated back by landing into the field below. Shooting a spray of jagged ice above him Jack ran away from the fight using his momentum to lift off and rocket high above his foe. 

Most of the evening hours are wasted this way, Jack and Pitch volleying long distance strikes at each other across expanses of fields and forests. The pines drip with melting icicles in the warmish air. There are occasional bouts of close-quarters combat that Jack quickly tries to break up. 

One of these break-ups finds Jack being corralled into the town that once seemed a safe distance away. Pitch is hot on his heels as he bolts into the open square with a fountain in the middle. Smirking maliciously Jack flits back behind the statue putting it between them for a brief moment of respite.

The shadows briefly tested which side would be most beneficial to get at him by then decide to just swarm straight through the middle to surround the boy. A triumphant “Ah-HAH!” resounds as the water erupts up from the fountain entrapping the blackness. A sculpture much like the one in Antarctica suddenly decorates the middle of the square, the human statue entrapped in the middle like the horrendous victim of a brutal crime. 

Jack is laughing breathless now at his success, but Pitch doesn’t stay bewildered for long. He gathers his remaining sandy shadows about him (should have brought more, damn-it) and descends upon the boy from over-top the morbid artwork. His darkness is blunt and shapeless he uses it like a battering ram over his fist to pound the kid into the ground. Jack can do little in his surprise but block. Sand slams into his staff and falls about his ears to the ground as he is forced to one knee. He smirks as the attack must surely be weakened by Pitch’s new lack of firepower. But what comes next has him speechless.

Pitch with his own victorious growl has his hand wrapped around the middle of Jack’s staff. The sandy battering ram had been a bluff?! Before the sprite can strengthen his grip his companion is ripped from his fingers and thrown across the pavement clattering meters away. He can do little but gape in astonishment as Pitch stands straight, arms open wide in an almost supplicating manner, an evil grin on his face in new challenge.

A vicious snarl rips from the winter spirit’s throat. Shadows block him from his staff. He tries to dodge to the side, countered. He leaps to the other, stopped in his tracks. The fun for him has all but disappeared replaced by a still subdued panic. He knows Pitch can taste the fear by the sadistic little grin that shows off his fanged teeth. Adrenaline courses through him renewed. If it’s a fist fight the bastard wants it’s a challenge Jack will heartily meet!

Fine! If this is how it is going to be, Jack will just beat him up and get his staff when he’s down!

He initiates with a run at Pitch who sinks back down into stance his scythe forming into his grip a bit less substantial looking for lack of sand. Leaping into the air Jack effectively hops over the low slash of the blade and comes in fast for a diving punch to his foe’s head. Pitch uses the momentum of his swing to twirl himself out of the way so Jack misses completely. 

Another horizontal slash has jack crouched to the stone to miss it and he leaps up swinging widely trying to catch Pitch with an imprecise haymaker. Yes! The blow has the Nightmare stepping back and Jack takes this opportunity to continue his offensive by spinning down with his previous momentum and swinging a leg up to get a good second swipe in. Another hit.

Jack is sticking in far too close and Pitch can’t keep the proper distance necessary to wield his scythe properly. It is quickly abandoned in lieu of what jack can only sum up as amorphous sandy gauntlets. Pitch’s fists are encased in swirling black and they really start the fist fight now. 

The differences in their styles are readily apparent. Pitch (to Jack’s silent amusement) has a very boxerly stance, he is fluid and smooth though where Jack figured he’d be stiff and rigid. Jack is very much like he is in the air on the ground; he uses all limbs equally opting for a kick when a punch would have sufficed. He is light and acrobatic taking on something akin to kick-boxing and capoeira. He is also giddily aware that even without his staff at the moment he can linger in the air just a touch longer than normal. 

Pitch is ever careful to keep himself between Jack and his staff. The spirit is constantly looking for openings to make a dash but stopped almost every time. And as Jack feels yet another bruise already begin to blossom from a good hit square between his shoulder blades, he stumbles but recovers into a quick roll forward.

“Not much good are you without your toothpick?” Pitch taunts.

Pitch taunts? It’s been so long since they had last actually spoken in battle Jack is taken back a bit. “I’m still putting you through your paces, Old Man!”

Pitch lunges with a snarl and jack dances back seemingly heedless. His heart pounding in his chest from exertion, adrenaline, and fear and he giggles. The thrill of fighting without his staff sends a rush through him. The real panic has morphed into something familiar, a heady kind of fear that leaves Jack light-headed.

“Better be careful or I’ll win again!” he chirps as he tries to flit past Pitch to his staff once more. He is again blocked by a swing to his head and he rolls back evading.

“Six to two is hardly anything to boast when I’m still convalescing.” The Nightmare King spits back in a tone that is not quite bitter.

Oh? Jack steps back and easily falls out of his stance straightening up. That’s new. New and interesting. Pitch has been keeping score. Just like Jack, Pitch has been keeping score! What did this even mean to the boy? It was certainly super significant. Was Pitch having fun too? The very concept of it was ridiculous but it brought a wide grin to his face.

Beaming Jack leapt back in to the fight, it barely registered that Pitch had given him his brief respite. He laughed as his uppercut was blocked, as his kick was kicked right back at him, as his slaps connected. He couldn’t do much but try and evade Pitch’s own attacks, blocking was unwise as the taller man was much stronger than him. He was great at evading though.

Blows were exchanged, met, and brushed off. Jack leapt back and twirled in flinging his limbs with his own propulsion. His wrist was caught however in an iron grip and he was heaved through the air like a rag doll. This didn’t deter him though, he landed poorly yes, but he got right back up and ran in and leapt for another diving punch his limited contact with the wind helping to give him a bit of extra height. His icy white knuckles clashed with ashen gray ones, and before the black sand could crawl further up his wrist Jack cackled madly as he brought his other fist in a quick as lighting punch to Pitch’s mouth. 

The black sand snaking up his limbs fell to the stone with a sudden hiss. Pitch stumbled backwards and Jack landed laughing staring between his knuckles and his foe then back to his fingers. They were bloody. His fingers dripped blood; he had obviously cut them on Pitch’s sharp teeth. What really caught him off guard though was that laugh. A breathless almost hysterical laugh that wasn’t his met his ears. His eyes shot up to find Pitch a few feet back staring at his own hand. His own bloody hand. Dark nearly black (for all Jack could see in the night it was literal tar) blood dripped from the Boogeyman’s lips. His teeth and tongue were coated as he licked his split lips and laughed a hoarse cackle. 

Jack nimbly took this opportunity to sneak past and get his staff. Pitch Black seemed to be completely immersed in his injury and didn’t stop him thank god. Once it was safely back in his palms Jack spun around and sauntered back over to pitch a barely contained laugh budding on his lips.

Sucking on his bloody fingers that were quickly turning into slushy red popsicles, Jack outwardly spluttered a laugh as he found that Pitch was doing the same! He sidled up beside him and was in humorous disbelief as the Boogeyman was licking the blood from his fingers even as more was spilling down his chin. There was a lot of blood, maybe Pitch bit open his tongue as well? The image was grotesque but Jack was only struck with the absurdity of it all. His laugh came out as a sharp bark once more.

The noise abruptly shifted the atmosphere. Suddenly the raspy giggle from Pitch ceased. Bloody fingers from both parties fell away from their mouths. They gaped at each other. What the Hell? What. Was. Going. On? Jack’s red stained lips were slack his eyes grew wide with realization. He had a fair certain idea that his face mimicked Pitch’s own, perfect replicas of disbelief. That heady battle high seemed like it never existed. Jack couldn’t even inhale to start a statement before Pitch was retreating. 

Sand hissed along the pavement gathered around his ankles and in no less than a second he was gone. 

It took a whole minute for the kid’s brain to catch up. 

Wait! 

That was absolutely hilarious! 

He giggled once more and looked down at his fingers. Astonishing the whole deal was! Pitch was laughing and Jack swore that it was because he was entertained. He would stake his name as the one and only Guardian of Fun on it! And that banter they threw back and forth! It wasn’t malicious. Rude of course, angry though? No probably not! This was a step! A great and glorious step! To what though? 

His thoughts instantly darkened as he recalled them to before he was so interrupted. Death, injury, and war…Was Jack really like that? Was this step one in the wrong direction? Did this Guardian have such a side to him? He had to sickeningly admit that his bloody hand was amusing and he loved that punch to Pitch’s teeth even though it smarted now. His own blood was fascinating to him.

He always knew his blood was red, he had seen himself bleed many times before but it still struck him. In fact, only when it was exposed to the air did his blood take on such a human color. In his veins it all stayed blue and chilled and lacked oxygen but on the outside it was red! True his skin and the air froze it almost as soon as it escaped but it was still a wonderful red! (He never really got into the details of his existence, especially now when most of it was justified by his death? Too much thinking if you asked him.)

No, no. Off topic. War. He liked war? No! Never! Violence? No! Suffering? That one was harder…because TECHNICALLY, he reasoned, suffering involved all forms of experience. You could suffer through a dentist’s appoint, or suffer heartbreak. You could even suffer a bright sunny day in June. Torture. Torture was that side of suffer that everyone leaned to. No. Torture was horrific; Jack Frost would never condone it. Pain? Weeelllll….ok ok. If inflicted maliciously that was bad. If experienced unwillingly that was wrong, right? Jack did neither. He was furiously trying to justify this in his mind.

The pain in his hand was invigorating. The injuries he received during their battles though sometimes nasty and deep never upset him. Wounds were just the aftermath of the battle, they were the points to victory. They made him feel alive! The delicious pain in his hand was just another confirmation that yes, Jack did exist. And Now! Now he also had the confirmation that Pitch was willing! That laugh! His glinting golden eyes! His tongue licking up his own gore with a smile on those lips.

No, Jack came to the conclusion easily and lightly. He did not condone senseless violence and cruelty. He was perfectly OK with taking pain and fighting Pitch, since Pitch didn’t seem to reject a single one of Jack’s advances. His smile returned and as he cracked the bloody ice off of his fingers he flitted back up into the sky to find his personal season once more. 

Europe could have its spring. This year.

**Author's Note:**

> any thoughts? how bad is it :D?


End file.
